


For Therein All Honor Lies

by madcapkittycat



Series: Schitt's Creek Charter Bus [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Character Study, David learns to be a real boy, Introspection, M/M, Me And My Shadow, Pre-Canon, a bit - Freeform, and then also in canon, first fic I've written since the eighth grade, is this metaphor heavy handed? yes, is this motif losing its focus a bit? also yes, rambling character study, thanks dan levy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madcapkittycat/pseuds/madcapkittycat
Summary: David's whole life has been an endless intermission careening towards the second act. His costume is beginning to unravel.





	For Therein All Honor Lies

David's Givenchy sweater has a hole in it. David has never had to deal with this situation before. He is aware that the construction is maybe not as solid as he hoped (expensive clothes are not meant to last, then are meant to be seen and then never seen again), but in his previous life that was inconsequential, because clothes rotated in and out of his closet on a seasonal basis. David has a hole in his sweater. It's right in his armpit where he tugs the sweater off. His beautiful sweater, the last vestige of his wealth, has gone and gotten a motherfucking hole in it.

David collapses onto the bed. It is not the first time today that he has done so.

He can’t tell Patrick about this. Patrick would, god forbid, suggest that he _mend it himself,_ like David’s dignity had slowly seeped down through the tear and into the goddamn gutter. Patrick would tell David that he is overreacting; Patrick would offer to fix it, and then David would sigh in exasperation, and then Patrick would sigh in exasperation at David’s sigh. Patrick would probably tally this as another point against David in a running tally is probably already substantially unbalanced, and not in his favor.

David is aware that he is not easy to swallow. No, he. His thoughts come out wrong a lot. Case in point. David is not easy to tolerate, he should say, although “easy to swallow” is a lot easier to understand, and then people like Ted can make dirty jokes or puns about it and that's what makes people likeable, so maybe he should just stick with the dirty jokes. David is above dirty jokes. David is above all of this, ok, all these small-town people in their Kohl's and their Walmart, their clearance rack. Their sort-by-price low-to-high.

(Patrick was looking for new shirts one day. A few of his had mysteriously lost all the buttons down the front, how unfortunate, how strange. Patrick moved his cursor automatically to the sort option, like it was second nature to him to think of price as an _object_ instead of an _incentive_. David was appalled. He sometimes used to sort his clothing as price high-to-low and only buy the first two options that popped up. Everyone needed to know exactly what he was wearing and exactly how easy it was for him to wear such an expensive garment. Or was it expensive, really? Oh, he hadn't noticed. Just another item to throw in the hamper.)

“Um, first world problems much, David?” Alexis had said when she noticed him curled into a lump under his comforter. “Like, there are probably babies out there who don’t even have sweaters and are just left with like. No sweaters. So.” She double-taps the approximate location of his knee in a condescendingly comforting manner.

Alexis has potentially made a good point. It is just a sweater, after all, and it’s not like David is running out of clothes any time soon. On the other hand, David refuses to allow Alexis to make a good point. It has not escaped his notice that none of Alexis’s clothes have holes in them, although that might change after today, depending on how well David can control his impulse to run with scissors straight into Alexis’s rompers.

He can't wear the sweater, obviously, but he was also really only in the mood to wear the black and slate graphic print. It was what fit the David of today, streaks of steel expanding across a black horizon; it was what he felt, like maybe something was new, like maybe he could go somewhere. But David of course must be reminded of the fact that his streaks of light can only travel so far before dimming in the cavern that is himself, that everything in his universe is bound to tear and unravel at some point or another. He can only bear to watch with barely disguised horror.

Instead of hiding his emotions, David amplifies them. If he makes his horror farcical, it becomes unreal. No one thinks David really feels all he does. He is the greatest piece of performance art he has ever encountered, and David’s traveling show features an empty coliseum, each discarded seat with a cheap ticket bought by someone who couldn't stand to return after intermission. David's entire life has felt like one long intermission. He has just been waiting for that goddamn curtain to rise so he could start his second act.

A costume crew could take care of this hole, he muses. Maybe they would give him a new wardrobe. One that wouldn't feel so hot under the spotlights. But he will play the part for which he has been cast. He is Moira Rose's son, after all, a loyal thespian through and through. _Act well your part._

When David was younger he would sit with her watching reruns of Sunrise Bay. She very rarely spent time with her children; Moira preferred to spend time with an eternally younger version of herself frozen in time on a static screen. David would unobtrusively sit by her side, because if he was quiet and didn’t ask for dinner during her character’s climactic monologues, David could stay. After a while David learned not to care about disturbing his mother. He became loud enough to demand attention, he turned his volume up louder than the television set.

David is a theater with aisles wide to facilitate walk outs. David is a microphone squealing feedback through the speakers. David is making noise, but he is not saying anything, he says nothing, and who will buy tickets to nothing. He gives tickets away for free, begs people to see him. Maybe David will finally be interesting. No. David _is_ interesting. It is not his fault these members of the proletariat have been spoon fed their entertainment and cannot recognize quality when they see it. It is not his fault that he appeals to a more discerning audience. It is not his fault. It is not his fault. Maybe David should appeal more to the masses.

Alexis has always enraptured her audience. A large audience. A sold-out show. High ratings. Alexis will get renewed for a second season.  At school Alexis would stand in the middle of a circle and David would stand to the side, watching and waiting for a moment to jump in that never came. He stood to the side long enough to learn that if he stuck up his nose at the common, the easily enjoyable, that those who were also outcasts would stand beside him. With their noses up and their eyes trained on the ground, David and his friends watched the world through their periphery. After school ended David repeated the same trick over and over again. It was a wonder no one ever called him out on it, but sleight of hand is not nearly so masterful when the audience isn’t paying attention.   

His performances were meaningless, but at least he was doing something, at least someone was watching him when he waved his arms and spoke glossy truths like glass shards. David thinks about the fact that he might need to refine his performance. There have only ever been two willing audience members, and both live in Bumfuck, Nowhere. David supposes he should withhold judgement considering he also is a resident of Bumfuck, Nowhere.

Neither attendant has attacked David on his grandiosity, but David is more perceptive than he looks. He knows they both have David mapped out. He is afraid they have seen the show before and are bored, are waiting to go home, but they have not left yet.

In fact.

One of them is waiting for tea.

Curtain up.

**Author's Note:**

> a small ramble that flowed after i drank some truly disgusting grapefruit beer. no beta, obviously. if you see typos or mistakes please point them out in a kind manner because after that beer i am feeling very fragile


End file.
